Native Tongue

I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.


I don’t want to be remembered as the renowned author

That came from humble upbringings

And wrote because her ideas overcame her subconscious in a dream.


I don’t want it told that I went to college

And studied all the standard conventions of English literature

Until my brain was conditioned to fit the box.


I don’t want it assumed of me that I wrote

Simply because I was good at it,

Or because I traveled to Europe and was struck with inspiration.

Because it wasn’t ever, and will never be one of these things.

But, if my story must be told,

Let it echo off the cave walls and twist through the valleys that

I can’t run away.


Let it be known that I’m trapped in my own mind full of clauses

And effective words where if used correctly

Can build up kingdoms and expel demons.


Let it be known that I spend every waking moment

Existing in two dimensions, the tangible and the unreal,

Desperate to make sense of them both.


And let it be known that I couldn’t stop writing even if I tried.


This has been a brief moment in understanding who I am.

This poem is about: 


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